Corner Prophets

It's still summer enough. The thud of thought in every pore. Hot footprints on cold sidewalks. Soft wrists pressed deep into the corner.

There in the straight of his hair it seemed more than real. Lisping chins clicking out their sos's. Not a bottle to spare. For even the most urgent of messages. We never wanted to be rescued anyway.

Porch lights stare. Broken moons on our heels. As we gallop in our stumbles.

Clutching.

The stem. While the petals look up.

Corner prophets boasting leaves yet to drop. Little houses with windows big enough. To see everything out there.

Little houses with windows so big you don't know where to look.